Sweet tufts of grass soften the river bank. Sunlight jets along the water’s surface, pulling downstream with the gentle current.
The river doesn’t worry. It just moves, in stride with its course. There is no anxious breath beneath its surface.
It doesn’t worry, simply carries itself lightly down the curves and dips of earth.
It does not worry.
This morning is breathing room amidst the chaos. My life is a constant juggling act and I cannot get a grip on the balls churning through the air. I am not good with so many things in flux.
Am I built for something different, or is it growing pains, labor pains, birthing in me something different?
Do not worry.
It smells good to be outside, the clear air, light scent of grass. With these girls from a writing camp I’m helping to lead, spread along the bridge, some with legs dangling over the edge, some tucked underneath their frame, hearing the chime of bells, chirp of birdsong.
I imitate their actions and curl myself down on the wooden beams warmed by the sun. This is a calm that I can hold in my hands.
To feel the fullness of air, alive.
To let my legs linger over the edge.
These are my pay attention moments, my life blood.
More of this. Of quietness of soul, of silence, of drawing out the love of words and wonder of this world.
It is important. It is necessary and good.
The river keeps coursing. I run my fingers over the rough rust-shaded wood. It’s been smoothed, but there is still a wildness that hints at its home hundreds of miles away, deep in a slumbering pack of trees towering over flowers and fauna.
That quick glance of wild.
That quickening of beauty, revealed.
A wildness of my own heart that hears the call from long ago, the split-wide beauty that first breathed me to life, set skin to my bones and burned a fire that set to spread.
Do not worry. Remember. Let go. Let it all fall down in front of you. Stand empty, already full.
Looking for something in particular?
Explore the archive! Organized for ease by category and year.
Add a comment